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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several